Monday, November 27, 2006

Okay, we're back from our annual Winter Break......heading into December and 2006 is almost over....can you feel it? 2007....a new year...something special....a good year....it'll be a great year for the ULA....

when the clinic diagnosed my mother with non hodgkin’s lymphoma I vowed to finish the novel I’d been piecing together paragraph by paragraph for the last three years

it seemed imperative my mother die with the consolation that at least her son’s a published novelist

but as the tumors receded beneath the onslaught of chemotherapy and aggressive medication so my literary urgency eroded until the doctors pronounced by mother cancer free and I relegated the sixty pages of my novel to the bottom drawer beneath my porno mags

three years later the cancer has returned and I’m still not a published novelist as the cycle of radiation treatments begin anew my novel remains buried beneath the knowledge that my mother’s death and my novel’s life are mutually exclusive and equally meaningless

checkmate/touchdown

my friend’s son, Heith is the quarterback of the town’s high school varsity football team which puts him one rung below the mayor in terms of importance, celebrity

for Heith it’s a new accolade every week I even find myself trying to curry his favor

“hell of a game, last night you really controlled the ball grinding out the yardage as it were reminds me of my senior year as captain of the chess team”

“oh yeah?”

“yes, chess is a big thing up north, you know football... not so much so”

“that’s crazy”

“well... you have to realize at my high school I was also the editor of the school newspaper and you know what they say, those who control the media controls the minds of the masses”

“I guess so”

“so bi-weekly the football team would get a half inch column glossing over their latest defeat while a 32 point headline would trumpet my latest conquest over the cross town rival’s 16th level grand champion during homecoming yep, those were the days”

“why are you talking with an Irish accent all of the sudden?”

“huh? oh, well good luck with next week’s game and if your school’s chess team ever needs an assistant coach feel free to call me”

she left with twin ravens scorched into her chest along with the numerical margins of her husband’s bullet shortened life

devotion to the dead takes a little less celibacy than loyalty to the living

James expressed himself just as artistically, tattooing YOU FUCKING WHORE across the bedroom walls with blood and brain matter

fuck Buk

it was until I began submitting and publishing in the small press that my former hero worship of Charles Bukowski evolved into a cynical dislike

I’m reminded of the time when The Crow hit theaters I thought it was a good movie and then my buddy, Keith, saw it, over and over again

it was all he talked about he listened to the soundtrack incessantly, he papered the walls of his apartment with posters of Brandon Lee looking like an angsty mime

then came the combat boots... the black leather pants... One day I stopped by his place and he’d cut his hair shoulder length and dyed it black no amount of pancake make-up could obscure his freckles

I anticipated receiving a phone call informing me Keith had been shot dead by Michael Masse

it reached the point I couldn’t tolerate The Crow I pawned the VHS cassette I ditched my entire ebony wardrobe in favor of short pants and Acapulco shirts

in the same way I can no longer read Bukowski can barely stomach entering a tavern or betting on horses cats piss me off

it’s all I can do to even write this poem

meal ticket

standing in the fast food limbo between ordering and receiving my daughter stands beside me a rare lunch for the two of us together, two hours before I clock in for a ten hour shift

the plant controller and one of his key punching subordinates enters and orders and I don’t notice them until they are standing next to me awaiting their meal

I make up my mind immediately – when the plant controller nods at me and asks how I’m doing, I’m going to tell him he doesn’t communicate with me inside the factory, there’s no reason for him to acknowledge me outside the factory

damn the consequences if he doesn’t appreciate my tone of voice or challenging stare

but he never speaks a word to me and my daughter and I pick a table and eat our food, silently, as, three tables away, the plant controller drones on about profit margins and ideas to increase productivity

on empty September Thursday nights

you want some fun... drop low grade blotter acid go to a foreign high school in a strange town for their homecoming pep rally

stand near the band as they play “Louie Louie” the drum line pummeling your head with cartoon thunder while the color guard wave their flags like animated fireworks in your peripheral vision

catch the eyes of cheerleader moms give them long meaningful gazes

pick the smallest, skinniest bench riding kid on the team point to him and in a knowing way tell anyone who will listen “that boys going to have a stellar career in the NFL”

exalt in the freshly discovered hallways of regret behind doors you thought you sealed a long time ago

run naked down the recently painted sidelines until you’re chased down and beaten with zestful school spirit by blue and white clad strangers uninterested in excuses

lay on a thin cot in a cold cell stare at the geometrical patterns forming on the water-stained ceiling and wait for the secrets of the universe to reveal themselves

you’ll find the school colors never match the colors of the town’s prison garb

The Indiana Road Show Extravaganza brought you to by McDonald’s, Bob’s Beaver Shack and Nervous Charlie’s Fireworks and Hard Liquor

the billboards obscuring the flat lands along I-65 are the road signs to a fulfilling life

it eases my mind knowing I’m never more than twenty miles away from a Big Mac and fries

the billboards remind me Indiana’s largest adult bookstore is just off the next exit

the billboard promises live nude girls especially important for discerning men like me who demand a pulse from their show girls

drawing closer to Chicago the billboards become obsessed with money

interspersed with constant advertisements for the casinos continually cropping up throughout northern Indiana’s industrial wastelands are enticements to sell your ramshackle heavily taxed home to webuyuglyhouses.com

the better life... trade in your old car on a 2007 model 1.8% financing for those who qualify

I never qualify

religion is spoken for

BEWARE WHORE MONGERS YOUR TIME IS AT HAND MY LORD IS A VENGEFUL GOD paid for by the Blood of Christ, Redeemer Fellowship

I don’t qualify for what they’re selling either

I just keep driving through this two hundred mile long commercial I keep driving

Monday, October 23, 2006

Poetry and Stories by Carissa Halston

The Powers of Self-Delusion

I know what you're thinking.One night stand?Jesus, those are terrible.

They never turn out well.

It'll only lead to trouble.

Yeah, you should definitely steer clear of those one night stands.

Well, it's too late for me.

I've already had one.

With the most wonderful man in the whole wide world.

We're going to be together forever.

You'll see.

We met at this bar.

And he was really charming.

My friend, Allison, says that all the guys I end up falling for are invariably "really charming."But he was.The real deal.I mean it.

Anyway...

So he asks me.

"Can I walk you home?"

And I'm all like,

"I don't know.You're a stranger and my mom always told me to never talk to strangers."

"Don't worry.I was voted Most Likely to Take Home to Mom and Dad when I was in high school."

How's about that for credentials?

So we walked home.

Except I was wearing high heels and I was a little tipsy, so I had to lean on him a bit.

He walked...I hobbled.

So, we get to my apartment and I'm like,

"Here we are."

And we stare at each other and I'm having trouble remembering this part because it was kind of blurry already, but add memory to that and it's a fuzzy memory of a blurry vision.

I remember what he said though.

That I remember.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

And I said:

"Mighty presumptuous of you."

But then we were kissing and there was a fumbling for my keys and the door was open and we were inside.

See?I told you.Charming.

I have never been kissed like I was kissed by this man.

It was all very immediate and dire.

Like his life depended on it.

Like our life depended on it.

I remember the sex in little bits and pieces.

There were good parts and not so good parts.

The foreplay was infinitely better than the actual act.

In fact, the sex itself was brief and harried.

Anyway...

When I woke up this morning, he was gone.

Initially, I was miffed.

But he left me something.

It's a book.

But not the kind that's written.

The kind that you write.

In.

I had a few reserves about reading these things about someone I didn't know.

Would I want someone reading my innermost thoughts?

And then I thought about when I was twelve.

I had a diary with a lock on it.

I didn't always keep it locked.

Only if I had written something that wasn't for peering eyes...

Or something I was ashamed of.

But if it was unlocked and someone else read it, that was my own fault.

Right?

There was no lock on this book.

So I opened it.

Pages of confessions, longings and laments lay before me.

Should I read them?

Could I?

I could.

I did.

I read how he was in love.

A girl whose name is never mentioned.

He envisioned them creating a life together.

They'd have kids.

They'd vacation every year in Maine.

They'd be happy.

And I wondered, idly, if that girl could be me.

Did he write all of this last night?

Did he leave it here for me to happen upon?

Did he agonize over leaving me alone?

Did he love me?

I read those pages again and again.

I relished and memorized certain passages.

And I knew.

Yes.

It was me.

It is me.

We'll be married in Spain.

We'll honeymoon in Greece.

We'll wander the world together discovering little things about other people and each other.

And we'll be happy.

Forever.

A knock is heard at the door.

"It's him," she whispers.

She holds her hand on the knob.Frozen.

She steels herself to turn it.

The door is open.

It is him.

She thinks that standing there, in that exact position, he looks just like he did that time they were on the beach.Catching fish illegally.She wonders if he remembers...

They face each other.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she replies.

"I think..." he says.

"I love you," she thinks.

"I left something here last night," he finishes.

"Oh?" she says.

"Yeah.Small black book.Something of a journal, really."

She smiles at the thought of the kind words he spoke in it.

"I was wondering if you'd realize it was gone," she says.

She goes to get it and returns to the door with it in her hand.She wants him to ask if she's read it.If she knows how he feels.

He doesn't.

She sees an absence in his face.He looks directly at the book.

Slowly, painfully, she relinquishes it.

He takes it.

As soon as it leaves her hands, her memories of him fade.

"Thanks," he smiles.

"Yeah," she returns wistfully.

He turns and walks away.A memory tugs at her.Did she know him?

Watching him leave, she feels bereft of something but is unsure of what.

Fun in Garages (Vodka not Included)

Hanging out in parking garages

The well-off well-to-dos

Either sneer or clutch their wallets

Scared for your car?

That’s all we can take from you.

The material

The tangible

You, with your nose in the air,

Taking our dignity

and

our pride

and

our ability to overcome.

Is it because I’m drinking vodka out of a travel mug?

The Day Job

When I was younger, my grandfather retired from his job of thirty-two years and they gave him a gold watch.My mom said he should’ve stolen something from the office.It would’ve been worth more, she’d said.What I got from that is, what’s really important isn’t what you put into a job. It’s what you take away from it.Me?I steal wedding rings.

There’s more to it than that.I mean, I provide a service for the lonely and loathsome.A little company, a little ambiance.Maybe some small talk and then it’s down to business.Then again, I guess that can be said for any job.However, the fellatio is an added bonus.A whore by any other name would smell as…

Anyway, just so you know, I make my own rates.The basic wine and dine escort service, no touchy is $50.Suitor pays for dinner.

Cutting to the chase, a blow job is $75, a rim job is $150.Just sex, your average mount-me-like-a-pony sex is $250.Oral+sex is $400.And if you want me to stay the night (i.e. sex+whatever, whatever being anal sex, golden showers, fetish, et al.) is $750.But, yeah, I steal wedding rings.

I think of it as vacation time.I accrue enough; I can take them to the pawnshop and take a week off.It’s only backfired once.

I could not get this guy’s ring off.He woke up and backhanded me right across the room.Stiffed me the night’s wages too.I was out of work for a week.

I don’t see what the big deal is…if the ring was so fucking important, if that symbol of his marriage meant so much to him, why was he with me?

People are so fickle.

An ‘Untitled’ Evening in Early June

Children pass by,

walking,

not running.

"We don't run outside, William.

Come and stand by Mommy.

No, William.

You can't sit on Mommy's lap.

It would wrinkle her skirt."

These children,

forbidden from running,

they were born wearing khakis.

They'll always have

designer

hair.

They were tailored to match their parents.

A woman strolls by and admires the iron tree.

I reiterate...

Iron.

Tree.

'It's pretty, but $40,000?

Maybe some other time.'

Her shoes closely resembled

black licorice rope.

The phrase,

"Just because no one understands you

doesn't make you an artist"

comes to mind.

The guy with the

blue-collar

haircut

and

full-sleeve tattoos

keeps trying to make eye contact.

We seek out our own kind.

A tray passes at eyelevel.

Laden with food.

The M.F.K. Fisher

kind of food.

The kind of food rendered in

still life paintings.

I look around.

360 degrees.

This is not an escape.

This is how the rich live.

This is just a Thursday in June.

They're trying so hard.

And yet...

The most interesting people here are

the cater-waiters.

Couth

I flip off almost everyone I come in contact with.

It’s a disease.

It’s my gift to the world.

It’s my silent wish that, upon my offering, that person would turn tail, run to the nearest closed room, and fuck themselves.

I flip off my girlfriend every morning.She wakes up, showers and puts her bra on to tease me.She knows as soon as it’s on, I just want to rip it off of her.

I flip her off from under the blanket before she leans in to kiss me goodbye.

I flip off the guy at the bus station with the unnaturally hot girl on his arm because his hair lays the way I wish mine would.

I flip off every girl I see with pants or shorts that have words like “Cheer” or “Swimmer” printed on the ass.I wish they’d be more honest in their merchandising and print something more relevant to that part of our anatomy.

Words like “stinky” and “peachfuzz.”

Phrases like, “Do not enter,” and “Place tongue here.”

I make a mental note to flip off the manufacturer of those pants, should we ever meet.

I flip off every person who asks me if they can exit the shithole where I’m employed by the door clearly marked, “exit.”I flip them off under the counter so my boss doesn’t see it.

I flip off my boss with both hands because he deserves it.

I flip off every person I encounter with McDonald’s on their breath and a Wal-Mart bag in their hand.

My sister bought me a T-shirt with a picture of a hand with the middle finger extended.I felt it took away from my message, so, after she left, I flipped her off through the door and put the shirt through the paper shredder.

I just want to make a difference…spread a little joy.

Carissa Halston, 24, is the writer/director of Cleavage (a

collection of one-act plays) and contributing editor at the online literary

magazine, apt.Her work has been published at Unlikely Stories v1.0, Fables,

Open Wide Magazine and apt.She has upcoming work in both the online and

Charles P. Ries lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His narrative poems, short stories, interviews and poetry reviews have appeared in over one hundred and fifty print and electronic publications. He has received three Pushcart Prize nominations for his writing and most recently read his poetry on National Public Radio’s Theme and Variations, a program that is broadcast over seventy NPR affiliates. He is the author of THE FATHERS WE FIND, a novel based on memory. Ries is also the author of five books of poetry — the most recent entitled, The Last Time which was released by The Moon Press in Tucson, Arizona. He is the poetry editor for Word Riot (www.wordriot.org), a contributing editor to both Andwerve (www.andwerve.com) and Pass Port Journal (www.passportjournal.org). He is on the board of the Woodland Pattern Bookstore (www.woodlandpattern.org) in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Most recently he has been appointed to the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission. You may find additional samples of his work by going to: http://www.literarti.net/Ries/

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Poetry by William Taylor Jr.

Portrait of a Woman

She had skin like leather the cruelest mouth I’d ever seen and eyes as hard as the streets on which she walked everything she owned in a plastic crate beneath her arm an ancient radio screaming jazz as she walked down Eddy St. on a Sunday afternoon her clothes ragged and ill fitting but her legs still as beautiful as any that ever were and those eyes meeting mine daring me to say so.

And No One Left to Remember

These days my wife is troubled by the slow and ongoing death of our earth

and all the reasons for it

and how the president and nobody else much cares.

It keeps her from sleep.

She does not believe in god but sometimes wishes that she did.

The thought of every beautiful thing gone

and no one left to remember.

She asks me why we should be bothered to do anything at all

and I don’t have much of an answer

except that I imagine there must be some kind of beauty here in these tiny moments

the fact that they exist at all is maybe reason enough.

I think about it and I don’t think about it.

I’ve never known what to do about anything.

I think tomorrow I will start drinking early.

Your Eyes Like The Sun

I have no god but a decent bloody mary on an otherwise empty afternoon does its part to calm the troubled soul

and I imagine others too must weary of trying to hold the world together

on a day when you can’t get too numb too fast

on a day when all the murders and suicides make perfect sense

when the surface of things peels away in flakes and the void shines through

burning your eyes like the sun

like the flashlight of a motherfucking cop when you know you are

guilty.

William Taylor Jr. was born in Bakersfield, California and currently lives in San Francisco with his wife and a cat named Trouble. His poetry and stories have appeared widely in the small press and on the internet. He is the author of numerous chapbooks and his work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His latest book is So Much Is Burning published by sunnyoutside Press. A book of his collected poems is forthcoming from Centennial Press. He will one day be the last man in America not to own a cell phone.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Poetry byBradley Mason Hamlin

Poetry byBradley Mason Hamlin

Bukowski’s Shadow StrikesThe only people who may or may not call themselves writers that sufferfrom the shadow of Bukowskiare the onesnot yet litwith enough of their own lightningdoesn’t matterwhat a stupid reviewer saysyou should be so lucky to even get compared to the bestbut can you make the wild puppetdance on your own?can you carvefrom your flesha blood & gut creaturemade of pulpand ink?Bukowski left us the words “don’t try”on his grave markerjust another jokeyou’ve got to do a whole lot morethan simply tryyou’ve got to be the biggestmonster in townand stomp the buildingswith style--if you’re looking goodgoing the distancewith super atomic monkeysand sex-crazed naked robotsnobodybut nobodywill be able to cast a shadow over the wine bottleof your heartleast of allthe uninterested ghostof Mr. Bukowski.

JOHNNY CASH HAIKU

Downtrodden, he said

A man shouldn’t have to work

So hard for his bread.

SELF AUTOPSY

my familymoved back and forth

from west L.A. to east side

depending on my father’s finances

was born in a hospital in Los Angeles

and lived northeast

in Highland Park until seven

then moved to Santa Monica

--really another world—

then back to HP when 12

fighting cholos

on the way home from school

experimenting with every drug available

mom drinking herself to death

in front of me

dad gone all hours

trying to hustle Hollywood

violent brother

under Christian mind control …

Mom dead; me 15

Dad and I moved in with one of his friends

near the Chinese Theatre

then conned enough frog skins to live

in Marina Del Rey for 7 months

going to Santa Monica High school

couldn’t cut it there

too different from east side education

joined Navy and sailed away

at the age of 17

traveled west coast of world

landed in Sacramento when 20

started college as psychology major

got bored

started writing at 25

switched major to English

graduated from UC Davis

starving student; starving artist

started the process of working horrible jobs

singing/writing for punk rock bands

and eventually moving from silly lyrics

to reading/writing poetry …

turned 42 on November 20th

and I’m still not a rock star.

Bradley Mason Hamlin lives in Sacramento, California. His poetry, shortstories, and articles have appeared in several small press books, magazines,and literary journals in print and on line. Brad & his wife Nicky ownMystery Island Publications, literary pop culture venue. Recent workincludes the publication of Tough Company by singer/songwriter Tom Russell,featuring: Charles Bukowski. Brad is also the creator of the metaphysicalcrime series: Intoxicated Detective. For more information about Hamlin andother wild things—visit: www.mysteryisland.net

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Poetry by Nancy Gauquier

Words

I was thinkin’ about words –and attitude and howsome people are so uptight about sex,they use it to insult you.Like, I used to be a “sweet young thing” –ages ago –but that gets old fast –so now I’m an old bitch.I looked up bitch and it meansa woman considered to be lewd.Did you know that?I didn’t know that.So I looked up lewd and it means –preoccupied with sex and sexual desire,lustful. That is so me.And yet it’s meant as an insult.But if you make it an adjective,it’s a compliment.That was bitchin’!It’s all context.Let's see, he has a prick, that’s good,he is a prick, that’s bad.Ditto cunt.What is it with that?If people dislike us so much,why call us our favorite body parts?No one ever says, “She’s such an armpit!”“He’s such a big toe!”But the names we call people.Fucker, motherfucker, cocksucker --Why are these insults?I mean, hopefully, we’re all gonna beone of these at some point in our lives.What would we do without fuckers?They perform an important function!Motherfucker?You’re talkin’ about Daddy!Cocksucker?Why is that an insult?I’ve never met a man who said,“Stop it! I hate that!”I don’t get men.Always tryin’ to get laid,and then they insult you if you do!But no one wants you to fuck with their mind.“Hey, don’t fuck with me!”They’re talkin’ about their mind.I think.But if you blow it, that’s good.“You blow my mind!”You know, every once in a while,you meet someone and you think –now there’s a mindthat needs a good blow job.In the true sense of the word.Just take the top right offand blow out all that dustand all those cobwebsand blow away all those nasty germsthat breed complacency.Careful.Complacency destroys brain cells.Words!Like -- Fuck you.Why is it that the only people who say thatare the ones you don’t want to fuck you?You know, that should be said with affection."Fuck you." " Fuck you too."At this point, when someone says“You are so fucked,”I think, from your lips to God’s ears.

Men

I just could never understand men.But then I moved to the Castro,and I discovered gay men!Gay men are way easier to understand.Most gay men actually want their partnersto have equal rights.Most straight men say,“Oh, I’m all for women’s rights,I just don’t like feminists.”That’s like saying it’s okayif you want equal rights,as long as you don’t think of any wayyou might possibly get them.They don’t get it.They act like if you want equal rights,you’re trying to take their rights away.We’re talking about equal rights.That means rights for everyone!But straight men are afraidthat would take awaytheir right to be superior.That’s not a right!That’s a symptom of insanity!That’s megalomania!“I’m the king!”I hate it when I go out with some guyand he tries to impress meby putting other people down.Like this one guy --we go to the Castro theatreand the young ticket-seller has purple hair,so he’s got to put it down.So he says,“Would you dye your hair purple?”I said, “Sure, when I was younger.Now, I couldn’t get away with it.”

I did crazier things than thatwhen I was young.I used to wear this black fake-fur mini-dresswith these tight brocade bell-bottomsand purple high-tops.And hair down to my ass.It was so thick, when I wore my glasses,I looked like It!I took acid every week!I danced naked in a graveyard in Bolinas.I lived with a musician.I fucked a perfect strangerunder the psychedelic puppet stageat the Avalon Ballroom.That’s what youth is for!I should have said, “Yeah,I’m gonna dye my pubic hair purple.Why not? No one’s gonna see it.‘Cept me, and I could use a change.”

Fence Sitters' Ball

I love to dance.So I go to these neighborhood barsbut no one will dance.So I was complainingand my daughter says,“Mo-om, all the best dancingis in the gay bars.You gotta go to the gay bars!So I’m “but oh I dunno”and I notice this ad in the Weeklyfor the annual Fence Sitter’s Ball,so I’m thinking now that sounds like me.So I go to Jezebel’s and I give my $10to the guy in the black leather jacketat the doorand I’m late but it seems that I’m earlybecause not many people are thereand there is no dancing.No one is dancing.This guy is bent over with his pants downand this young women in tight black leatherpants is whipping his ass,but no dancing.I’m looking all over for the dancing,I’m looking in the back,I’m looking upstairs,I’m looking downstairs,there’s nothing.So I go to the guy in the leather jacketat the door and I say,“Is this an SM bar?”He says, “Well, technicallythis is the Fence Sitter’s Ball,but there’s all kinds.But they will whip youif you smoke.”So I think –Well, I don’t smoke,so that’s okay.“But where is the dancing?I thought there’d be dancing.Where’s the band?”

“There’s no band.But there will be entertainment later.”“What entertainment?”“I don’t know –but I can guarantee that at 11 –someone is going to set his dick on fire.”And I could tellhe was not speaking metaphorically,so I figure the $10 must beto cover the medical expenses.But I don’t know how this guy’sgoing to explain this to the nurse.“Hey, what happened to you?Get all excited while you were standingtoo close to the barbeque?”And this guy at the bar is watching mewander around trying to figure outwhat to do now, and he says,“Can I buy you a drink?”I am broke ‘cause I paid $10 at the door,so I say, “No strings?”He hesitates.He’s probably thinking rope,maybe chains,and he says, “Okay.”We’re sitting there and he says,“What are you looking for?”“I just wanted to dance.”“This is a leather and lace bar.”“I’m not into SM.”“Oh, just the sensuous stuff, huh?”(Just the sensuous stuff?!)So I go to the guy at the door.“You know, I thought this was a ballas in dancing,not as in come sit around for a couple hoursso you can watch some guyset his dick on fire.I mean, for $10, I could be dancing.I can sit around in a bar in North Beachfor free!”So he takes out a $10 bill.“I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

So I’m thinking, if I take the $10 -- can I still hang aroundand watch that guy set his dick on fire?

Nancy G swears it is all true, and is still kicking herself for not hanging around at the ball, but, knowing herself, she would probably have run for the fire extinguisher. She lives in Central CA, and enjoys comedy, spoken word and theatre. She has one chapbook, Words, available from Weird City Books. Nancy Gauquier, Weird City Books, PO Box 8245, Santa Cruz, CA 95061. $5 b & w cover, $6 collage cover, plus $1 shipping. Make out any checks or postal money orders to Nancy Gauquier.

the bubble head bitch is interviewingthe marine asshole on some mindlessmorning showthey are surrounded by peoplewith balloons and posterboardswho wave at the camerahopped up on starbucks coffeeand their pathetic fifteen minutesbubble head bitch tells marine assholethere are people who disagreewith his actionswhich were emptying two magazinesinto two iraqi insurgentsthen writing No Better Friend No Worse Enemyon the hood of their carmarine asshole says that’s finehe fought in a warto defend those people’s rightto disagreejust what the world needsanother american manstickin’tohisguns

I Could've Been a Flower

I was on the groundmute and delicateon my backI could've beena floweror a weedbut I was a six year old girland he was the preacher's boy from across the streetan average sized teenage boybut to me he was a giantand I couldn't fight him offhe pinned me downand I saw that the clouds were in the skyand I could hear the birds in the trees and on the telephone wires andthe carsdriving down the streetand he gave me a Little Golden bookfilled with songsand told me to read to himand if I could readhe would let me goI was so scared and illiterateI was such a slow learnerlate bloomerI was a dumb kidnot the kind of kid parents brag about at cocktail partiesand I was weakand meeknot a fighterand I don't know where my parents wereI don't know where anyone wasI was thereand hewas above meand that was first in a seriesof episodes that made my inner voice dialoguework overtime and off the clockI am smallI am a girlI am weakI cannot speakI have no voiceI have no choiceThey can push me downand step on meI'm going to have to learn how to readI'm going to have to learn how to screamThis isn't a dreamThis is life happening whether the angels in heaven like it or notThey must be having an off dayThey must be having choir practice

I could've been a flowerbut Iwasa girl

Misti Rainwater-Lites is the editor and publisher of Instant Pussy, a monthly print zine that features poetry that does not suck, collages, weird craig's list personals, tits & ass & pussy & the occasional cock. http://instantpussy.tripod.com

Monday, August 21, 2006

Poetry By A.D. Winans

FOR KELL

Old guitar slung over his backPure country singing the bluesin all of uswith eyes that cry out to be heardLeaving a message onAnnie’s answering machineReading a poem about a birdthat died in his handsRemembering the scatteringof his daughter’s ashesCaught in the pit of sorrowThis man of musicThis one time old friendwho works the nerve endslike a skilled surgeonStill fightinglike the rest of usfor whatever timeis left

CITY HAPPENINGS

there having a rumbleat Ellis and Eddy streetsand the police are slowto respondyou can see the rage in theChicano’s eyes smell thefear in Whitey theBlacks are shuckingand jiving and rolling dicewhile placing bets on winnerand losers alikethe street whores move downa block or twoto ply their tradeone white, one Asianone spade

the black and white arrivesat last dispensing the playerslike bit actors auditioningfor a role in the big show

small town punks gather themselvesrun for coverdon’t stop to look backhead for crack-housebiding their timelike a stoned Jesushung out to dryon your mother’s clothesline

BILL

He keeps a photograph tucked awayInside his meager belongingsThree soldiers smiling smoking cigarettesA Viet Cong in black pajamasHanging upside down from a poleGutted like a fishFlesh nailed to wood Jesus fashionNeeds no captionGuilt shadows him in doorwaysAnd under freeways whereHe now makes his homeIncoming artillery tears at his nervesPieces of flesh stuck to bambooLike a piece of meat thrust intoA tiger’s cageVietnamese peasantsSuspected Cong haunt his dreamsLike a faceless Santa Clause leavingBehind a bag of body parts

GOING TO MAKE POETRYAN INSTITUTION

The preacher mandon’t believe in evolutionThe con-mandon’t believe in revolutionThe priest has run outof absolutionNo more autographsNo more forced laughsNo more hanging around the zooswapping stories with gurusGoing to smoke some dopewith my good friend the PopeGoing to make love nice and slowRead me some Edgar Allen PoeLose myself in the late night showGoing to make a cameo appearanceon the 10 p.m. newsPlay me some John Lee Hooker bluesGoing to penetrate a prerogativeBugger the cosmosEvolve evolution into a revolutionPut anarchy on the stockmarketNuke technology outlaw e-mailDeclare Da Da the officialEnglish languageGoing to hang religion from a treeMake John Brown the newNational AnthemTurn outlaws into in-lawsLand owners into donorsPut Bukowski’s faceon Mount RushmorePay homage to a whoreGoing to name a bus afterRosa ParkPut a little nookiein every fortune cookieExpose Saint Nick as a chickwith a dickGoing to invite the First Ladyto ride through the streets of Chinatowndressed in a see-through nightgownGoing to talk to the fly in the soupalone or in a groupGoing to sing a ballad withLorca and a band of gypsiesstop off at the managerand have a talk with the Lone RangerGoing to put an end to hemorrhoidsOutlaw humanoidsGoing to offer a truceBring back Lenny BruceMake politicians ride the cabooseGoing to go back to schoolErase the golden ruleGoing to feed a vultureStarve off mass cultureGoing to turn evolution intoA revolutionMake poetry an institution

A. D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet, writer and photographer. His work has been published internationally. Recent books include This Land Is Not My Land (Presa Press) and The Last Rodeo (Bottle of Smoke Press). Presa Press will be publishing a book of his Selected Poems in January 2007. He can be contacted at ad1936@juno.com

Monday, August 07, 2006

I really like Christopher Robin's stuff. Funny, elegant, sad poems. Good poems. Christopher is from Santa Cruz, California and he publishes one of the two or three best poetry magazines in the country. Aptly titled Zen Baby, you can get a copy by sending a couple bucks to PO Box 1611, Santa Cruz CA 95061.

Poetry By Christopher Robin

Xerox Sprint

How will we interpretThis reluctant American incarnation?This wasteland of cells and shortcomings…Low budget/unfinished hologramsShoot across scarred bellies/Unholy canvases/Bodies we can’t translate-In hereThat check will never be cashedIn herePunk rock beats gurgle up through the toiletAnd mix with surrealismAt the cracklin’ MicThis is a carnival of bullshitThe cops are right outsideTrying to make the distinction betweenThose with a poemAnd those withoutBut how can they tell?We get:Walt Whitman tattoosAnd Emily Dickinson enemasBuy old carsCollect typewritersJoin MySpace/Cell-phonedOr chopping-woodCelibateOr sexually-panickedUnmade beds smelling of schemes…Some of us fast/And some just sit stillto wait for the wineTo bring a supernatural dawn/picked last for the teamor not picked at allSome of us will break outOff the beer/off the doleMost of us won’tMy ink is an eternal sprintAcross these Xeroxed outsider pagesMy friends and I are headlinesIn the papers no one reads-Moving so fast through the livingI fear boredom more than deathAnd I refuse to sleep-The lumbering old trains pass us bySinging their graffitied-death-rattlewhile we sling emailswith lightning irrelevance-in the city/honor what kills youor say uncle

GIVE US A LAP DANCE-THE END IS NEAR!

The future’s givin’ a lap dance but luckily it’s too dark to see the wrinkles

so stand at attention feel that red, white and blue pride swell

She’s got two bad eyes a sore on her lip Destiny is browbeaten hunkered down ready to one up herself

She ain’t got nothin’ on Hitler, Mussolini, Cheney, DOES she?

Please board now the ship they told us would never sink

is sinking AGAIN but the sunset is amazing the record is skipping

the champagne has been pissed in so many times the universal joke IS embalmed

Worm eaten PASSE

Nobody’s laughin’ the parties been over since the first stone was ever hurled

We are limping towards our own execution the corners of our mouths clipped in irony

practiced in black-lit mirrors reading Spin Magazine

and what a story this will make!

Where we can link our ‘elevated yellow” PANIC? and government sanctioned

illiterate but downloading-all-the-deeper-meanings–plastic-band-of-cyber-monkeys….

with my phone unpluggedI get the news in my sleep via karmic reruns of a century imploding on itself

All those hometown leg-less boys could be sitting on barstools right now watching

football games holding the women’s movement back fifty years

Or shooting deer instead of Iraqi’s

my heroes will go AWOL or bomb Wall Street

But what do I know about bringing down empires? I have barely the fortitudeTo tie my own shoes!

I HAVE BEEN DECLARED INCOMPETENT! ‘Born to Lose’? my planned

obsolescence was planned by me

it’s all quicksand

this American dream

and we are all at this very moment NOWHERE TO BE FOUND

praise be to Allah for that

Clown Fish

I can’t workI’ve dedicated this dayto snapping my fingersand singing a choruswith the lastheartbeat of the worldI’m a carnie animalugly jackskipping over minefieldsof loose synapsesa broken headedprofessional bumblerby tradegender mutantof the sensual circuslilting ghost radioin my nervesof a zig zaggingcarefreepony-tailed girlwho I loved withsuch impossible beliefI asked her to please grow upand leave mein the loopof the eternal summer 8-Trackwith an endless boyhood skyand no mothers calling me homethe dummy of the furious walksearching for an ill defined mysticismpromised to mewhen the worldfell out of my skullI dream the numbersI own the make believebut I can’t find a nickelto scratch the sunshineout of this winning day